The Adventure of the Deceased Doctor

by Hugh Ashton

It was Christmas of 1916 - that terrible winter following the fighting on the Somme, where so many of our gallant young men lost their lives in the mud of Northern France, and so many had been killed on the Turkish shores of the Dardanelles. For my part, I had re-joined the colours, but my duties were in “Blighty”, as we had learned to call our native land, where I worked in a Hampshire hospital treating those who were recovering from the loss of a limb or severe head wounds.

Since providing assistance to my old friend Sherlock Holmes in the matter of the arrest of the German spy, Von Bork, he and I had maintained a correspondence, and from him I learned of his elder brother Mycroft’s death some years previously as the result of an aneurism. Sherlock Holmes himself was employed in matters which had previously formed part of his brother’s remit, and from the guarded hints that he dropped in his letters to me, he was dividing his time between his bees in Sussex and the Admiralty, where he had dealings with a mysterious organisation in that building which went by the name of “Room 40”. Naturally, as a patriotic citizen, I did not enquire further into the nature of his work, and he, by his very nature, was secretive regarding it.

It was, as I say, Christmas-time, and I had invited Holmes to spend the holiday season with me. My fellow-lodger had recently departed for the Front, and I considered it to be a kindness to Mrs. Dalwymple (the landlady of my “digs”, whom I discovered after having lodged there for some months to be a distant cousin of dear Mrs. Hudson of Baker Street) to invite Holmes to take the room for a week or so at my expense, as well as providing me (and, I hoped, Holmes) with congenial company.

Much to my delight, he had accepted my invitation, and he arrived, showing signs of age, which I fear were not only due to the passing of the years, but also to the terrible strain and stress that he was suffering as a result of his Admiralty work. He was, as was his nature, reticent about the details, but from my knowledge of Holmes, I could read between the lines that a terrible responsibility lay upon his shoulders as the result of his duties.

“I am delighted to see you, Watson,” he greeted me as he entered the house. “And back in harness. You appear to be in good health, though you have lost a little weight. Five-and-one-quarter pounds, I fancy, since I saw you last.”

I laughed. “Holmes, I do not have time or the inclination to worry about such things. I dare say you, as always, are correct. Ah, Mrs. Dalwymple,” I added as my landlady approached, “may I introduce my old friend, Mr. Holmes.”

“Pleased to meet you, sir,” she said to him. “Doctor Watson has told me that you used to lodge in London with my cousin, Mrs. Martha Hudson.”

“Indeed so. Happy days, were they not, eh, Watson? I hope you will not take it amiss, Mrs. Dalwymple, if I make you a present of these.” He held out two jars of honey. “They are from my own hives on the South Downs, and I will wager that it is some of the finest honey you will ever taste.”

“Oh, Mr. Holmes!” she exclaimed. “With the rationing and everything as it is now, this is most welcome. You keep bees, then, sir?”

“Indeed I do. Forty hives, forty little kingdoms, or should I say ‘queendoms’, each busy in the pursuit of sweetness.”

“Why, Holmes, you are quite poetic,” I laughed.

“Apiculture is a subject fit for poetry. You remember your Virgil, Watson? The Georgics, Book Four?”

“A cup of tea, Mr. Holmes?” Mrs. Dalwymple offered.

“It would be most welcome,” he answered, and I ushered him into the drawing-room that was used by the lodgers of the house as a common-room. Currently, I was the only lodger, and was therefore able to treat the room as my own.

After ascertaining that my landlady had no objection to tobacco, Holmes filled and lit his pipe, and leaned back in his armchair. “Ah, Watson,” he sighed, “you have no idea what pleasure it gives me to see that familiar face seated opposite me. The memories of those days...”

“You are becoming sentimental in your old age, Holmes.”

“Am I? I suppose it is a state that we all approach as time passes. But it is true, is it not, that those days which you recorded so sensationally were indeed some of the best of our lives?”

He and I fell into reminiscences, interrupted only by the arrival of the tea-tray, graced with a steaming teapot, and with some scones adorned with some of Holmes’s own honey. I learned that Lestrade had recently retired, with the rank of Superintendent, and that Tobias Gregson, one of the Force’s more promising officers, according to Holmes, had recently been rewarded with a knighthood.

“And you yourself, Holmes? Why are you not now Sir Sherlock Holmes? The nation owes you that, and much more, for your services over the years.”

“The honour has been offered to me on a number of occasions,” he said. “What need have I for such a bauble? My fame, such as it is, is the result of your work, and requires no further adornment. As for those who rule us, believe me when I say that they are well enough aware of my little contributions to the security of our realm.” He paused, and yawned. “As am I. The work on which I am currently engaged is devilish tiring at times.”

“Would you permit me to examine you at some time while you are here?” I asked him. “I am certain that it is some time since you have visited a medical practitioner.”

“If it will amuse you,” he answered. “You are correct in your supposition, though. I seem to have had little time for such matters recently.”

I had detected, during our conversation, various signs of fatigue and strain, similar to those I had observed in our shell-shocked patients. The twitching eyelid and slight trembling motion of the hand were symptoms I had also observed before in Holmes when he had driven his body and spirit to their limits. There was an additional air of “nerves” about Holmes which was remarkably pronounced, even for him.

The evening passed pleasantly enough, however, in friendly conversation, punctuated at times by those silences which can be said to be companionable, and whose existence is only possible with those between whom a deep friendship exists.

“I am for bed,” I told Holmes as the clock struck ten. “I must make the rounds of the wards early tomorrow morning, although it is Christmas Eve. I expect to be finished and to have returned by half-past eight, and we may breakfast together on my return, if that is agreeable to you.”

“Perfectly agreeable,” he answered.

It was five o’clock in the morning as I made my way through the darkened wet streets to the hospital. As I approached, I was surprised to glimpse more lights in the windows than I would expect to see at that hour.

I entered the building and was instantly accosted by the nursing sister who was in charge overnight.

“Doctor Watson!” she exclaimed breathlessly. “Thank goodness you are here. Come with me now!”

“Why, what is the matter?” I asked her. “Surely there is nothing that Doctor Godney cannot manage?” I should add that our patients were for the most part convalescent, and did not require the kind of intensive medical attention that was needed at the Front, for example.

“Doctor Godney,” she answered me with a sniff, “is dead. He is sitting there in his office, at his desk, but cold as ice.”

I was naturally shocked at this news and expressed my surprise that such a seemingly healthy young man should pass away so suddenly.

“But that is not the worst,” she added. “Come and see for yourself.”

She led the way to the room, where, as I had been told, Godney was sitting at his desk, motionless. On the floor was visible, protruding from behind the desk, a pair of legs, shod, but otherwise bare to the knee, and female, if the shoes on the feet were any guide.

“Who is that?” I asked, pointing to the legs.

“Nurse de Lacey. One of our volunteers.”

I remembered the girl, who was working at the hospital to “do her bit”. She was an exceedingly pretty young lady, from one of our old county families, and seemed always willing to help with even the most menial of tasks, which would have turned the stomach of many lesser women.

“She is also dead?” I asked, horrified by this revelation.

“No. Merely unconscious.”

“And you have left her there? Why?”

“See for yourself, Doctor,” was the reply.

By now it was clear to me that foul play of some kind had been done. I therefore stepped with extreme caution around the side of the room, taking care to cause as little disturbance as possible, and beheld the scene from the far side of the desk.

“You are sure he is dead? What have you moved or touched?” I asked.

“I am sure, Doctor,” she answered me. “I have touched as little as possible. Both of them are in the same place and posture as when I discovered them. I did only what was necessary to confirm the presence or absence of life.”

“It was you who discovered this scene, then?”

“It was I. One of my patients was coughing, and I came to the office to obtain the key to the dispensary from Doctor Godney. I knocked, and there was no answer, so I let myself in, and saw - this.”

“When did you discover this?”

“Not ten minutes before you arrived, Doctor.”

“And who else knows of these events?”

“No-one other than you. If you had not arrived when you did, I was about to alert Perkins, the porter, and ask him to inform the police.”

“Very well,” I told her. I surveyed the scene. Sister Lightfoot was experienced enough for me to be able to take her word regarding the condition of the two bodies. It was clear, in any case, that Nurse de Lacey was alive, but appeared at first sight to be in no danger. However, the garments comprising the upper half of her nurse’s outfit, as well as the undergarments beneath, were opened at the front, almost to the waist, and nearly exposing her breasts, which rose and fell gently in time with her shallow breathing. Her skirts had been pulled up to a little above the knee, and it was clear that her stockings had been pulled down. Her body appeared to be lying on a hypodermic syringe, half of which was visible.

“The hussy,” said the sister, as she took in my shock at seeing the partly-undressed body lying there.

“It is not for us to judge others, Sister,” I told her sharply. “Now listen to me and follow my orders. You are to tell Perkins and ask him to fetch the police, as you were about to do. Having done that, you are to return immediately with a blanket, and use it to cover Nurse de Lacey. You are then to stand outside the door and permit no-one to enter, including the police. We are lucky in that my old friend Sherlock Holmes is presently staying with me. I am sure that he will be able to provide answers to the questions that we all have regarding the death of Doctor Godney, and the unfortunate condition of Nurse de Lacey.” I spoke in a tone of voice befitting the nominal Army rank of Captain which had been bestowed on me on my appointment to the hospital. “While you inform Perkins, I will stand guard here until your return with the blanket, and then fetch Mr. Holmes.”

“Yes, Doctor,” she replied meekly. When she had gone, I moved as carefully as I could to Godney, and satisfied myself that life was indeed extinct. Sister Lightfoot’s first words, that he was cold, were mistaken. Given the temperature of the room, which was well heated, I estimated that he had passed away not more than a few hours previously, but it was impossible for me to be sure of that without more precise measurements. However, it was clear that rigor had yet to set in, and this likewise confirmed my suspicions.

I had completed my preliminary investigations when Sister returned, bearing a blanket, which I helped her spread over Miss de Lacey.

“Very good, Sister,” I told her, instructing her to wait outside until I returned with Sherlock Holmes. “I will be as quick as possible,” I told her.

Much to my relief, Sherlock Holmes was awake and dressed when I reached Mrs. Dalwymple’s, though it was barely six o’clock.

“Back so soon?” he asked me.

“I am glad to see you awake,” I answered.

“I found it hard to sleep, and accordingly arose early. Surely breakfast is not prepared at this hour?”

“By no means. You are needed at the hospital urgently. There has been a death, and I suspect murder.”

His face brightened. “How very gratifying. I mean to say that it is gratifying you feel that I may still be of use in these matters,” he added hurriedly. “A murder, you say? Well, well. Just like old times, indeed.”

He dressed for the chill outdoors, and as we hurried through the streets, I informed him of the circumstances.

“Dear me,” he exclaimed, as I informed him of the partially undressed state of Miss de Lacey. “I fear we will be uncovering matters which the principals in the case would best have left hidden.”

We arrived at the hospital, to discover Sister Lightfoot standing outside the door, with an elderly uniformed constable beside her.

“I’ve heard of your work in the past, Mr. Holmes,” the policeman informed him, “and I’m no detective myself, being the only man free when the porter came to the station, so I took this lady’s word that I wasn’t to enter until you came here. I can’t speak for Inspector Braithwaite, though, who is our senior detective officer. He’s been called, and should be with us shortly.”

Holmes introduced himself to the sister, and thanked her gravely for her promptitude and professional conduct in the matter, words which seemed to please her. When he chose to be, Sherlock Holmes could be the most pleasing and emollient of personalities, and it was good for me to see that this faculty had not deserted him.

Without entering the room, he opened the door, and peered inside. “I trust that your Inspector Braithwaite will not be too long in arriving,” he said to the constable. “It is important that we examine the scene of the crime as soon as possible after the event, but I do not propose to make an examination without the permission of the police. I have no wish to interfere where my presence is unwelcome.”

“Speaking for myself, sir, I am more than happy to see you here. Many of our best men have gone over to France, sir, and Inspector Braithwaite, though he is - Ah, here he is now, sir,” he broke off, drawing himself up to attention as a tall figure, accompanied by Perkins, was visible at the end of the corridor, and made its way towards us.

“Thank you, Constable. You may stand easy,” said the newcomer, with more than a hint of a Northern accent to his voice. He turned to Sherlock Holmes. “You are Doctor Watson?”

Holmes smiled and shook his head. “No, sir. This man,” indicating me, “is Doctor Watson. My name is Sherlock Holmes.”

“Indeed? Bless my soul! I had imagined you to be retired from the business of detection. This is indeed an honour, Mr. Holmes. May I ask what you are doing here?”

“I am spending the season with my friend, Doctor Watson.”

“I see. And you,” addressing me, “discovered the body?”

“It was Sister Lightfoot here who made the discovery, and brought it to my attention when I arrived for the early ward rounds this morning.”

“Very good.” He proceeded to question the sister, who repeated what she had told me earlier.

“Thank you. Excellent,” he said to her. “Constable, go with Sister here to another room, and take her statement, and then return to the station. Now,” turning to me, “you have been in the room and seen the body?”

“I have,” I told him, and informed him of my actions to date.

“We will require your statement later, Doctor. And you, Mr. Holmes?”

“I was waiting for your arrival before I entered the room. I judged it best that it be left undisturbed as far as possible.”

“Thank you for your consideration, but to tell you the truth, Mr. Holmes, I am a relative novice at this kind of work. With the war, and so many of our officers leaving to fight the Hun, we all find ourselves in unfamiliar employment, do we not? I am content to let you work the magic of which we have all read in the accounts by Doctor Watson here, and to watch, and with luck to learn from you.”

“Very well, then,” said Holmes. “I will endeavour to live up to my reputation.”

It was a joy to me to see my friend in his element once more. His eyes fairly glittered as he entered the room and took in the scene. He sniffed the air.

“Do you not smell it?” he asked me.

“What is it?” I answered. At the time I was suffering from a mild cold, and my sense of smell was dulled.

“There is a faint scent of rose water.”

“No doubt it is the scent worn by the nurse, de Lacey, is it not?” commented Braithwaite.

“Almost certainly that is not the case,” I corrected him. “The nurses at this hospital are under strict instructions not to wear any kind of jewellery or to use cosmetics or scent of any kind while on duty. The matron here strictly enforces these matters.”

“The doctor, then?” suggested the policeman.

“I have never known him to wear such,” I said.

By this time, Holmes had reached the bodies, and swiftly ascertained that life was extinct in that of Godney. “How long do you estimate he has been dead, Watson?” he asked me.

“Judging from a very rough estimation of the temperature of the body and of the rigor that I made earlier, I would say a few hours at the very most.”

“I concur,” said Holmes. “What would you take to be the cause of death?”

“I have no certain idea,” I replied, “but I will undertake that the syringe here that you observe has some connection.”

“At what time would he commence his duties?”

“At eight last evening, and he would make two ward rounds in the course of the night until he ceased to be on duty at six in the morning.”

“Very well,” answered Holmes, and bent to the fallen nurse, removing the blanket with which she had been covered. “Ha!” he exclaimed, following a brief examination of the clothing that now only partially covered the poor girl’s body. “Did you examine her?”

“I only ensured that she was alive and not in immediate danger,” I answered, with a slight blush.

“Then you did not observe that these garments appear to have been torn open by sheer force? See, here, where two buttons are missing. I am sure your dragon of a matron would never allow a nurse to appear with a missing button.”

“Indeed so.”

Holmes gently opened one of the girl’s eyelids. “You observe the contracted pupil?” he asked me.

“One of the symptoms of opioid poisoning?”

“Indeed.”

The inspector had been watching Holmes at work in an embarrassed silence. He now broke in with, “Is it not time that you covered the poor lass and sent her to her bed?”

“One minute, please. Watson, you are a medical man. One last thing. Please ensure that Miss de Lacey’s nether undergarments are in place.”

“What in the name of - ?” began Braithwaite, but then stopped as the implication of Holmes’s request struck him. I was deeply embarrassed at having to perform this task, but a quick inspection was enough to reassure me.

“All appear to be in place and untouched,” I was able to report, with a certain sense of relief.

“Very good,” said Holmes. “Watson, you are familiar with the workings of this place. I will restore Miss de Lacey to some sort of state of modesty, while you summon aid to transport her to someplace where she can be cared for.”

When I returned, with two porters bearing a stretcher, and accompanied by Sister Lightfoot, who had completed her statement to the constable, the stricken nurse was now in a decent state.

“I suppose we are to move this Jezebel to a bed?” snapped the sister.

“I fear you misjudge her,” Holmes said gently. “Her upper garments seem to have been torn from her by main force. It does not appear at all possible that she removed them herself. And Doctor Watson here assures me that all is as it should be below the waist, as it were.”

“Based on my cursory examination, that is,” I added.

“So the poor girl was the victim of an assault by Doctor Godney?” Sister Lightfoot’s attitude appeared to change dramatically on hearing Holmes’s words.

“She appears to be the victim of an assault, certainly,” Holmes answered her. “As to who was the perpetrator, I agree that Doctor Godney would appear to be guilty, but, as I remarked once to Watson, and he has never let the world forget these words, it is a capital mistake to theorise before one has data.”

The porters lifted the unconscious girl onto the stretcher and carried her away, the sister following. Holmes carefully picked up the syringe on which she had been lying and placed it on one side of the desk.

“So, Inspector,” said Holmes, rubbing his hands together, “what do you make of it so far?”

“I would call it an open-and-shut case,” said Braithwaite. “The girl came to the office, he assaulted her, she resisted his advances, and in self-defence she used this syringe here to protect her honour. In the struggle, she also received a dose of the drug with which she poisoned him.”

“Good, Inspector. A fair summary of the facts as you perceive them, but not, unfortunately, of the facts that are to hand.

“Consider the following. We are told that under no circumstances are the nurses or staff permitted to wear scent or toilet water or perfume, and yet, when we entered this room there was a distinct smell of rose water. I think we are all satisfied that this did not emanate from Doctor Godney, nor Miss de Lacey.

“Next, we have the evidence of the ripped clothing,” he continued. “Two buttons were torn off the bodice. Where are those buttons?”

“Maybe they are still with Miss de Lacey, hidden in folds of her clothing?” I suggested.

“It is certainly possible,” answered Holmes, “and you may be sure that if they were, I would not be the one to find them. Watson, I intensely dislike using you as my Mercury, but you are a member of the staff here, and you have the authority to command. Can you please ask the sister to search Miss de Lacey’s clothing for the missing buttons or any scraps of torn cloth, or threads? Thank you.”

I left on my errand, and returned to discover Holmes examining the hypodermic syringe with his lens. “Well now, what do you make of that?” he asked me, passing me the lens.

“The plunger is halfway down the barrel, and I see some traces of blood on the needle, but yet I see no sign of any liquid having been recently contained in there,” I said, a little perplexed.

“Indeed so. And now look at this.” With a forefinger he lifted one eyelid of the corpse, to display an eye that appeared perfectly normal. “You recall de Lacey’s eye?”

“Indeed I do. We agreed that it showed the symptoms typical of poisoning by an opiate, did we not?”

“We did. And if the doctor here perished by the same means, we would expect to find the same symptoms here. We do not find them, therefore we may conclude that Godney met his end by some other means.”

“But the syringe,” exclaimed Braithwaite. “What is the significance of that if, as you say, it did not contain a fatal drug?”

Holmes said nothing, as he searched through the papers contained in the wastepaper basket beside the desk. “Aha!” he said, with an air of triumph, holding up two small crumpled scraps of dark brown paper. “I had guessed there would be something of the sort here.”

“What are they?” asked the policeman, as Holmes laid them on the desk beside the syringe.

“Smell them,” Holmes invited, by way of answer.

Obediently, Braithwaite did so. “Chocolate!” he cried triumphantly. “With a strange bitter aroma added.”

“There,” said Holmes, “you have the method by which the drug was administered to de Lacey.”

He bent to the desk, where Godney’s curled hands still rested, and after first requesting and receiving permission from Braithwaite to examine the body, opened the right hand. Clutched within it were two buttons, which matched those I had observed on de Lacey’s bodice. Without removing them from the dead man’s palm, he applied his lens to them and examined them closely. Abruptly he stood up, with a sudden intake of breath and handed the lens first to Braithwaite, and then to me, inviting us to examine the objects.

“Tell me,” he said to me suddenly, “was Godney married?”

“He was, I believe. I did not know him well, but I recall his discussing marriage at some times in the past.”

“And was he in favour of the blessed state?”

“By no means,” I laughed. “He regarded a wife as a drag on a man’s ambitions, and even an ambitious wife as being a handicap to success. He was by no means averse to female company, however.” I broke off. “This is merely hearsay, and my word regarding a colleague. I hope you will not regard it as merely idle chatter.”

“Let me be the judge of that. I know you too well of old, Watson, for me to dismiss your words lightly.”

“At any rate, the story was that the nurses, particularly the younger and prettier ones, refused to be alone in a room with him. There were tales of unwanted words and worse. I repeat, though, that this is merely such gossip as tends to circulate within a small community such as this hospital.”

“Nonetheless,” retorted Holmes, “it may well prove to be of considerable importance. In your opinion, is it possible that Godney might have attempted to force his attention on Miss de Lacey, after summoning her to his office on some pretext?”

“I must reluctantly admit that such an action would indeed be possible.”

“And what, do you think, would Miss de Lacey’s reaction be?”

“Without doubt, she would repulse his advances.”

“You seem very sure of your answer, Watson.”

“I am indeed. There is a precedent.”

“Oh?” Holmes arched his eyebrows.

“This is merely gossip once more, you understand, but I have every reason to believe it true. The story is that Godney attempted to steal a kiss from Miss de Lacey about a week ago. She not only refused to accept his attention, but delivered a ringing slap to his face. This latter action was reportedly witnessed by two other nurses who happened to be passing, and the news of the incident was all around the hospital inside an hour. Since that time, Godney had been avoiding any intercourse with others in the hospital, save when his duties demanded his presence.”

“Embarrassed, was he, eh?” asked Braithwaite. I nodded.

“Given his misogyny, which is typical, may I add, of many such womanisers, it would seem likely that he would seek his revenge on the woman who had shamed him, as he would see it,” said Holmes. He broke off abruptly as there was a knock on the door.

Sister Lightfoot entered in answer to Holmes’s invitation. “There were no loose buttons or threads in her clothing, though there were some missing from her bodice.”

“Thank you, Sister,” answered Holmes. “Then we have them here,” and he showed the buttons clutched in the dead man’s hand.

She shrank back at the sight of them. “Then he got what he deserved,” she said. “I am sorry for the names I called that poor girl just now, but I sincerely believed that she had fallen a victim to his evil ways. Doctor Godney was a danger to any woman near him, Mr. Holmes. I do not flatter myself that I am still young or beautiful, but even I was not immune to his unwelcome attentions. As for the younger nurses,” she shrugged, “they refused to be alone with him. Though I complained about him to the Superintendent, nothing was done and he persisted in his ways. Doctors are scarce in this time of war, and good doctors even more so, and Doctor Godney, for all his personal faults, was a good doctor.”

“You say that the nurses feared to be alone with him? So when you discovered the two together, you feared the worst?”

“Indeed I did. I do not know if Doctor Watson has informed you of last week’s incident?”

“He has.”

“My immediate thought was that Godney had invited her to his office early in the morning, while they were both on night duty, on the pretence of making some sort of amends for his earlier behaviour, and she had succumbed to his advances. But the fact that you have found these buttons clasped in his hand would seem to indicate otherwise.”

“Indeed so,” replied Holmes. “One more question, if I may, Sister,” he added as she turned to go. “Watson has informed me that the nurses and other staff here are forbidden the use of scent or toilet water.”

She nodded. “That is so.”

“So you would have no idea from where the scent of rose water might originate?”

“What a question, Mr. Holmes. It is, as you know, a popular fragrance.”

“Of course. But please cast your mind back to when you might last have encountered it.”

She appeared lost in thought for a minute, and then came to with a start. “Yes, I do remember,” she told us. “It was about three weeks ago. Captain Cardew’s widow.”

“Pray continue.” Holmes by now was occupying one of the chairs in the office, his eyes half-closed and his fingers steepled in that attitude I knew so well.

“Captain Cardew was one of our patients. The poor man had been severely wounded by a grenade, and had lost both legs below the knee, and his entire right arm. He was suffering from shell-shock, and his constitution was extremely weak. You will vouch for that, Doctor Watson.”

“Indeed. He was not under my particular care, but I attended him on a number of occasions, and it was a source of wonder to me that he hung onto life as he did.”

“In any event, he died some three weeks ago, and his widow came here to view him before the undertakers arrived. I distinctly remember the smell of rose water at that time.”

“Had she been a frequent visitor to the hospital before her husband’s death?”

“Why, yes. She came to see him, even if it was only for a few minutes, almost every day.”

“And the doctor responsible for his care was Doctor Godney?”

“Yes, he was. How did you guess?”

“No guessing was involved, Sister. Thank you.” It was a clear dismissal, and Sister Lightfoot took herself off.

Following Holmes’s orders, I arranged for Godney’s body to be removed from the office and taken to the morgue.

“I am baffled,” said Braithwaite when the stretcher had left the room. “I see nothing but confusion.”

“On the contrary, my dear Braithwaite, the case is now as clear as daylight. And speaking of which, the sun is at last risen, and Watson and I are ready for our breakfast. Come, let us return to the estimable Mrs. Dalwymple’s. Will the addition of another guest for breakfast inconvenience her in any way, do you think?”

“It is hard to tell in these days of rationing,” I said, “but I am sure that she will manage.”

“Thank you,” said Braithwaite, “but I fear you are playing some sort of joke on me. I completely fail to see what you have deduced from this?”

“Never mind,” Holmes told him. “All will become clear soon.”

Following breakfast, which Mrs. Dalwymple provided for the three of us with seemingly little trouble, we made our way, at Holmes’s request, to the police station.

“Do you know this Mrs. Cardew, Inspector?” Holmes asked.

“I hardly know her, Mr. Holmes. We move in somewhat different social circles, you understand. Of course I know who she is, and something about her. Her family owns the big house in one of the villages hereabouts.”

“Send one of your constables to bring her to the station.”

“To arrest her?” Braithwaite appeared horrified.

“That is for you to decide when you have heard her answers to the questions which I, with your permission, propose to put to her.”

“Very well, Mr. Holmes, but I fear for my position, such as it is, should you be mistaken in this matter.”

“Never fear, Inspector,” Holmes answered gaily, clapping the man on the shoulder.

It was some thirty minutes later that Mrs. Geraldine Cardew was shown into the room in the police station where we sat waiting. She was a striking young woman, and her widow’s weeds did little to obscure the obvious beauty of her face and figure. Her expression, however, was one of stiff arrogance.

As she sat down, I noted the smell of rose water, with which she had clearly scented herself.

“Well, Sergeant,” she addressed Braithwaite, “I hope you have a good reason for bringing me here. You could have visited me at the Hall and saved a poor widow the trouble of this visit.”

“It is not Inspector Braithwaite, but I who requested your presence,” Holmes informed her. “Thank you for your cooperation.” He made a small half-bow in her direction.

“And you, sir, are..?”

“The name is Sherlock Holmes.” There was a sharp intake of breath. “The name is familiar to you, I see.”

“You are the private detective, then? I am flattered that you lower yourself to speak to me.” The tone was half-amused, and mixed with sarcasm.

“Firstly, I wish to inform you that Doctor Godney at the hospital passed away last night.”

“Why should I be concerned about the death of a doctor there?”

“He treated your husband, did he not?”

She frowned as if in an attempt to remember, but to my eyes unconvincingly. “Yes, I recall him.”

“And he also comforted you in the time of your husband’s illness, did he not?”

“He was sympathetic, yes.”

“And he made himself agreeable to you?”

“If you say so, Mr. Holmes.”

“Agreeable enough for you to have your photograph taken together?” Holmes reached in his pocket and produced a pasteboard square which he tossed onto the table.

She blanched at the sight of the photograph which showed her and the late Godney together. “Very well, then. Yes, I loved him, and I believed he loved me.” She paused. “Do I have to continue?” Holmes said nothing, but nodded silently. “My poor Giles - my husband - was a broken man. Even if his body ever healed, he would be forever only part of a man. I needed a man, Mr. Holmes, a man to hold me and care for me. Perhaps you have never felt the need of another, but for me it was a necessity, even as I watched Giles slip away from this life. Lionel Godney was that other. He appeared to me to be good and kind, and attentive.”

She paused, and dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief. “Please continue,” Holmes invited. “It will go easier on you at the trial.”

She started at these words, but resumed her narrative. “Then I discovered from a friend, in the week after Giles had died, that I was not the only one in his life. In fact, he had an unsavoury reputation as regards women. There were tales of his advances on the nurses at the hospital. I heard that he had been forcing his attention on Olivia de Lacey, and that was the last straw as far as I was concerned.”

“She is known to you?”

“Her family’s lands adjoin those of my family. We have known each other since childhood, though I confess I am a little older than her. At any rate, I was not prepared to lose Lionel to her.”

“She rebuffed him, you know,” I told her.

“I did not know that last night.” She took a deep breath. “You want to know how it all happened, Mr. Holmes. I will tell you, then. I knew that Lionel had the night duty last night, and I knew that he spent most of the time in his office. Earlier in the day I had come to the hospital, and hid myself in one of the unused rooms along the same corridor as his office, from which I could observe the comings and goings. At about four o’clock or a little after, according to my watch, I observed Olivia de Lacey enter his office, and I was filled with a jealous rage.

“I crept along the corridor, and flung open the door, hoping to catch the couple in what I believe you detectives call in flagrante delicto. Instead, I found Olivia sprawled on the floor, seemingly lifeless, and Lionel standing over her, a look of horror on his face.

“I forced him to sit down in his chair-”

“Excuse me,” broke in Holmes, “but how did you manage that?”

“I had Giles’ service revolver in my hand,” she replied simply. “It was unloaded, but Lionel Godney did not know that, so it was easy to force him to do my bidding. When I demanded an account of what was happening, he explained that he had lured Olivia to his office on the pretext of apologising for some previous incident, but had intended rather to take advantage of her. To that end, he had prepared some sweetmeats - chocolates - laced with laudanum, but it seemed that he had miscalculated the dose, and she had fallen to the floor, lifeless, almost immediately after eating two of them.”

“Her fatigue may also have accelerated the effect,” I added. “The nurses are being asked to perform work over and above the call of duty.”

“Be that as it may, Olivia was lying on the floor, dead, and Godney, the coward, was shaking in his shoes. I was so angry that I forgot the revolver was not loaded, and pulled the trigger. He burst into laughter which was almost hysterical, and that inflamed me still further. I pushed the revolver back into my skirt pocket, and snatched up the first thing I could find to hurt him.”

“The hypodermic syringe that he had used to inject the laudanum into the chocolates and had subsequently cleaned, and left to dry on his desk before returning it to its proper place?”

“Yes, I suppose so. At any rate, it was sharp, and it was in my hand, and it went in under his arm. There was remarkably little blood, I remember, but in a matter of minutes, he clutched at his chest, and appeared to lose consciousness. It soon became obvious to me that he was dead. I was glad, Mr. Holmes. Glad, I tell you.

“My next move was to blacken his name without, I hoped, blackening that of Olivia de Lacey, whom, it seemed, I had misjudged. It hurt me in my heart to do this, but in my frenzy it seemed to me to be the best for all. I opened Olivia’s garments roughly, exposing her flesh, not caring if I tore the cloth. I had noticed that for some reason she had pulled her stockings down about her knees. I assumed that this was as a result of her suspender belt having ‘gone’.” Here she made a wry grimace. “I do not expect you gentlemen to fully understand the mysteries and complexities of these things. You must take it from me that this is sometimes the case. In any event, I wished to emphasise that her upper legs were bare, and I pulled her skirts up so that the fact was obvious to all. I hoped that the implication was that Godney had assaulted her, and she had stabbed him with the syringe, which I tucked under her body.”

“Did you not realise that she was still alive?” asked Holmes.

To my amazement, Mrs. Cardew burst into peals of laughter. “She was alive?”

“She lives,” I confirmed, “and will recover soon, it is to be hoped.”

“So all my ingenuity was in vain, it would seem? Poor Olivia. But I wished that Godney would suffer in death, so I removed some buttons from her bodice and placed them in Godney’s dead hand, and curled the fingers over them.”

“The intention being to make it appear as if he had ripped open her garments, tearing off buttons in his haste?”

“Precisely.”

“You should have torn off the buttons, not snipped them off with scissors,” Holmes told her. “Better yet to have left them as they were.”

“How do you know that I used scissors?” Mrs. Cardew fairly gasped.

“Elementary. A high-powered lens uncovers many secrets.”

Braithwaite, who had remained silent throughout this whole conversation, now spoke. “Geraldine Cardew, I arrest you for the wilful murder of Lionel Godney on the morning of December 24, 1916. I warn you that anything you say will be taken down and used as evidence against you. Take her to the cells,” he instructed a constable. “I will take her formal statement later.”

Before she was led away, Mrs. Cardew requested and was granted permission to address Sherlock Holmes. Her words were as follows.

“Mr. Holmes, I do not know whether to thank you from the bottom of my heart or to curse your name for evermore for your part in exposing my crime. Yes, I did it, and I am glad that he is gone out of my life and the lives of all the other women he has tormented. I regret taking his life, though. I cannot say that I did it deliberately, and I cannot say that it was an accident. I am sorry for poor Olivia, and I am sorry for Mrs. Godney. I hope that she will thank me for removing Lionel from her life. I hope - I do not know what I hope...” With that, she broke into a fit of sobbing as the constable led her away.

“Well,” said Braithwaite as the door closed. “How did you come by all that, Mr. Holmes? I was in the same room as you, I saw and heard all that you saw and heard, and yet I was in the dark, while you were shining light all around. How did Godney come to die, for example?”

“Watson will confirm that the injection of air into the bloodstream will cause a painful and rapid death. When she stabbed at him with the empty syringe, the plunger was depressed. By bad luck, she must have hit a blood vessel, and the air bubble entered his bloodstream.”

“So it was an accident?”

“You could make out to be such, certainly. My first clue that a third party was involved came when I noted the scent of rose water. Whence had that come? It must have been from a person who did not work at the hospital. Sister Lightfoot told us of the identity of that person. The fact that Miss de Lacey had obviously suffered from opiate poisoning, and Godney had not done so posed a slight problem, but that was resolved when I examined the syringe and formed the hypothesis regarding his death that I just described to you.”

“How did you know that the syringe had been used to inject the laudanum into the chocolates and then cleaned and left to dry?”

“A bow drawn at a venture. It proved to hit the target, I think.”

“Where did the photograph of the prisoner and the murdered man come from?”

“Ah, there you must forgive me. I abstracted it from his desk drawer while you and Watson were otherwise occupied. I had a fair idea of what I was looking for, after Sister Lightfoot had told us about Captain Cardew and his wife. But the really damning evidence came with the open bodice. It was meant to appear that it had been ripped open, when in fact it had been opened with a little care. And then our fair criminal over-gilded the lily.”

“The buttons?”

“Precisely. Cutting them rather than tearing them off was a careless error, but it was ridiculous for her to imagine that had he indeed ripped them from their place, Godney would still be holding them in his hand. The art of the criminal, like that of the painter, consists of knowing when to stop.”

“I thank you most sincerely, Mr. Holmes,” said Braithwaite at the end of this recital. He rose and shook hands with Holmes. “I am more than grateful to you for your assistance.”

“All the credit shall be yours, Inspector,” Holmes told him. “I do not wish my name to be mentioned in connection with this case.”

“That is uncommonly generous of you, sir,” said Braithwaite.

“Nonsense. Consider it my Christmas gift to you. It is, after all, the season of peace and goodwill, and God knows there is little enough of either at this time. Let me attempt to redress the balance in this small fashion. A very Happy Christmas to you, Inspector Braithwaite.”